We’re at the halfway point of The Times BFI 51st London Film Festival and it’s almost time for us film-makers to move on to another freebie – another paid holiday (provided that you are a specially invited movieland VIP or an Alist “film bum”, that is).

There are several we have declined to attend for a variety of reasons. One was at the highly regarded festival in Kerala, India, for which the organisers expected me to acquire my own films from the distributors, not realising that, once a director has delivered his finished film to the production company, he waves goodbye to his beloved brainchild for ever.

Another was at Yubari, a mining town in northern Japan. The organisers were unwise enough to send me a video proudly showing its main attractions – a coal museum, a four-star restaurant only 25 miles from town, and the town’s only hotel, which would have done credit to a Siberian gulag.

I say “we” because it is generally understood that your invitation is for two. So invariably my wife, Elize, accompanies me to such exotic destinations as Mar del Plata, Argentina, to which we travelled, via Buenos Aires, by plane. But the moment my speech was over and I had served my purpose, we were dispatched back to Buenos Aires, travelling the 568km [350 miles] in a much cheaper mode of transport, a rickety white van, with six other unfortunates, including Philip Noyce ( Rabbit-Proof Fence) and Bob Rafelson ( Five Easy Pieces).

Yes, getting there (and back) can be a problem. The last leg of our journey to the Telluride Festival was spent flying at 9,000 ft over mountains in thunder and lightning, as hail the size of cricket balls bombarded the hull of our fragile plane. Our lives were in the manicured hands of two beautiful blonde pilots – and could that be an instruction manual they were engrossed in? I prayed all the way.

My prayers were answered, as we eventually arrived in a luxury hotel suite and both relaxed in a spacious, steaming hot whirlpool bath, sipping champagne in oxygen masks. Yes, oxygen – don’t forget the heady altitude, enhanced by such Alist stars as Tobey Maguire, Om Puri and Salman Rushdie crowding the sidewalks of this boutiquey western town.

So far, I have not mentioned the films. More often than not, these are a necessary evil that you must suffer in silence, especially if you are on the jury – at the Moscow Film Festival, for example – run by a high-ranking former KGB officer, who once drove me in his stretch limo to the giant festival cinema. On the way, he told me how, during the Cold War, he smuggled my films into the Soviet Union and sold them on the black market – after recording a Russian translation on the soundtrack. Very enterprising. But the old Soviet behaviour patterns still prevailed as the members of the jury were roughly shaken awake by “guards” if they failed to earn their keep by nodding off.

More often than not, we directors collect an official prize, especially if the festival is giving us an “homage”. The award is generally in the form of a useless, unwanted and very large object. At Philadelphia it was a cracked but chunky piece of glass in the shape of the Liberty Bell. I left that one under the bed of our swish hotel.

But strangest of all was my experience leaving Tokyo. As the giant 747 was turning to taxi and take-off, a petite figure in a kimono and clogs and waving a samurai sword appeared in hot pursuit.

To everyone’s amazement, the plane stopped, the steps were lowered and the mystery woman hopped on board. Breathlessly she knelt at my feet. “Greetings, Honourable Mr Russell. You forgot your Grand Jury prize. It was found under your bed in the Grand Hotel.” And with a gracious nod of her head, she gave a little bow, said “sayonara” and trotted off. The stewardess looked troubled. “Don’t worry,” I said, raising the sword. “It’s a fake.”

I’ve recently received an e-mail from the 26th International Festival of Films on Art in Montreal. In part, it reads: “We wish to pay tribute to your work in the realm of films on art. We offer air travel and accommodation. Please let us know if you can attend and convenient dates.”

To this I responded enthusiastically, adding: “As is customary, I would like my wife to accompany me in business class.”

I have just received a reply, which, after suggesting midweek dates, continues: “Of course, we hope you could stay for the weekend, since you will be receiving an award. However, the limited budget of the festival cannot provide the anticipated travelling conditions. I will therefore contact the officials of your country to gauge the possibilities. Best wishes.”

Fat chance! And, as I’ve learnt from experience, no go, no award.

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